No rest for the wicked
by ultron emperor
Summary: Spring clouds began to scud across the sky in mackerel shapes, promising more rain. The boy turned up his mask and listened to the sound of his feet pounding the pavement. There was a trick to that, a subtle mental adjustment, like having better night vision the longer you were in the dark. This morning the sound of his feet had been lost to him. He was ready...to kill.(Dark Jaune)
1. A new age

Hello everyone!

This is my first fan fiction in English ( I'm italian ) and I am very excited.

It will be a sort of crossover between RWBY and the universe of horror movies. And I stress, a sort, because this story is not only a crossover. It is a remake of RWBY with elements taken from the world of slasher movies.

Enjoy it and, if you like, feel free to review.

* * *

I don't own RWBY and the Universe of Slasher Movies.

Prologue : A new age

The horror started on the eve of Samhain, in a foggy vale in Northern Ireland at the dawn of the Celtic race. And once started, it trod the earth forevermore, wreaking its savagery suddenly, swiftly, and with incredible ferocity. Then, its lust sated, it shrank back into the mists of time for a year, a decade, a generation perhaps. But it slept only and did not die, for it could not be killed. And on the eve before Samhain it would stir, and if the lust were powerful enough, it would rise to fulfill the curse invoked so many Samhains before. Then the people would bolt their doors . Scant good it did them, for the thing laughed at locks and bolts, and besides, there were the unwary. Always the unwary.

Samhain. The Druid festival of the dead.

The summer had passed, and so too had that outburst of early fall warmth now know as Indian summer. The green had gone out of the land, the crops harvested, and the chill of winter had descended like an angel of death. The people, fearing the sun might never again warm the land, held their festival to appease Muck Olla, their deity. On hillsides and in the caves and daub-and-wattle huts great fires were lit to which the spirits of the departed were invited by their kinsmen to warm themselves, to be cheerful before the snows blanketed the earth. Druid priests divined who would live and die in the coming year, who would marry, bear children, wax rich, enjoy good health. And they attempted to hold at bay, through sacrifices and other rites, the witches and goblins that ran amok at that time, stealing infants, destroying crops, killing farm animals... and sometimes worse.

Salem was the third and youngest daughter of the Druid king Gwynnwyll. Her hair was sandy brown with amber highlights, her eyes sea green, her complexion cream and wild rose. She was already taller than her older sisters, and her early development had been the cause of much concern in the tribal community.

The other virgins tittered with envy; the married women voiced disapproval and counseled her mother to marry her off before the girl yielded to her budding impulses; the young warriors eyed her yearningly, and the old warriors thought forbidden thoughts and reflected on their faded memories.

His name was Enda. He was fifteen, and he loved Salem with a secret passion that tortured him and at night caused him to cry out in his sleep.

When it became rumored that Salem's father, the king, was preparing to offer her hand in marriage, Enda consulted his kinsmen and asked if they thought his suit would be looked upon in favor. He suspected what the answer would be, but his longing overcame his embarrassment.

"Ho! Salem marry you?" his father cackled.

"With your shriveled arm and your twitching mouth?"

For Enda had presented himself wrong end first when his mother birthed him, and the midwives had made a botch of his delivery.

"She would as soon marry my goat!" howled his uncle.

"Or Bulech!" his brother added, pointing to the runty dog worrying a greasy bone in the corner of their hut.

"Besides," said his father, "I'm told she's but betrothed to Cullain."

"Now there's a lad worthy of that wench's pretty hole!" his uncle burst out, raising his wineskin to his fat lips, and they continued to discuss Salem's charms as Enda retreated miserably from the hut into the cold night.

The boy suffered tortures such as only the adolescent can.

At length, he determined on a plan. If he could somehow get directly to Salem, he would convince her that though he was illfavored physically, he was in every other respect a fitting candidate for her hand. This was easier said than done, however, because virgins were closely watched by their mothers or by truculent warrior brothers.

Nevertheless, one day Enda seized an opportunity when Salem went to fetch water from the stream at the foot of the hill.

He followed her furtively, darting from tree to tree until he found her stooped over the stream, singing softly to herself as the water filled her clay pitchers.

" Salem?" he called timidly. She turned and gasped, eyes round with fright.

"You! What do you want?"

Her body tensed, and she seemed ready to bolt.

"I... I want to..."

The panic in her face alarmed him. He had expected to startle her, but had not imagined she would greet him with such revulsion. He stepped forward, hand extended pacifically. But she jumped back, misinterpreting the gesture. She stumbled, almost falling into the stream, and Enda moved swiftly to rescue her.

"No!" she shrieked.

"Get away from me, monster!"

She found her feet and burst into a run, crying, "Help! Help! He means to rape me!"

Enda's body had been deformed at birth, but not until that moment had his soul been formed...

And now it was Samhain, and Enda humiliated beyond reason, stood on the perimeter of the celebrants dancing and chanting around the bonfire.

In his left hand he held a fat wineskin, from which he drank often. In his right he held a foot-long butcher blade which he used to cut the throats of pigs and chickens.

His eyes were fixed bitterly on the figures of Salem and Cullain, whirling exuberantly around the fire, to the immense approval of the tribe. For their betrothal had been announced, to the joy and relief of all.

Enda's legs shook and his body trembled in the cold night, though the heat of the fire was intense. And when the couple pirouetted past him once more, he leapt like a wildcat on his twin prey. Unarmed, their elbows linked, they didn't have a chance. Enda's blade sliced easily through Cullain's jugular and windpipe. His legs kicked out in a grotesque finale to his dance of life. Then he fell like a slaughtered bull, dragging Salem downward. Her head turned away, she laughed, believing that her drunken partner had merely stumbled. Enda's blade caught her with laughter on her face, the same laughter that had mocked him after she had run safely into the arms of her tribesmen the day he had approached her at the stream.

The highly honed weapon plunged into her breast up to the hilt. In the clamor, no one heard the explosion of wind from her lungs, the gurgle of blood, the whimper, or saw the look of dreadful recognition as the light faded from her eyes – except for Enda.

The thrill of revenge was the last emotion Enda knew, for a moment later he was literally torn apart by the enraged tribe. Only his head and his heart were preserved, gathered up after the frenzy had subsided, at the request of the grieving king. After Salem and Cullain were buried on the hallowed ground the following day, Enda's head and heart were carried to the summit of the Hill of Fiends, where cowards and other outcasts were left to rot unblessed. The king asked his shaman to pronounce a special curse over the remains of this vile murderer.

"Thy soul shall roam the earth till the end of time, reliving thy foul deed and thy foul punishment, and may the god Muck Olla visit every affliction upon thy spirit forevermore..."

The sky darkened and lightning flashed. The day suddenly grew black and cold, and out of nowhere gusts of snow lashed the tribal party. In the history of the tribe, it had never snowed so early in the year. Satisfied that Muck Olla had heard his prayer, the shaman summoned his people to turn their backs on Enda and return to their bereft village...

The celebration of Samhain's eve was transmuted over the centuries. The invading Romans carried the tradition back from the English Isles with them in the form of the Harvest Festival of Pomona, and the early Christians deemed their celebration Hallowmas. The popes of the Middle Ages consecrated November 1 as All Saints' Day, and All Hallow Even slurred into Halloween as the holiday was transmuted over the next millennium.

With the coming of modern civilization, the superstitions and traditions of the original festival lost their meaning and vitality. Token recognition could be seen in the custom of lighting candles in jack-o'-lanterns, hanging effigies of witches and goblins outside homes, and playing goodnatured pranks that were a feeble cry from the mayhem of the old times.

Children paraded about in costumes whose significance hand long ago lost their correspondence to the terror of evil that had once gripped the world at the onset of winter. Halloween, like many of the holidays, had become an empty shame.

Except that from time to time, the innocent frolic of All Hallow Even was shattered by some brutal and inexplicable crime, and the original spirit of the celebration was brought home to a horrified world. Then the people would bolt their doors. Scant good it did them... and besides, there were always the unwary.

* * *

Civilization slipped into its second dark age on an unsurprising track of blood, but with a speed that could not have been foreseen by even the most pessimistic futurist. It was as if it had been waiting to go.

1000 years ago, God was in His heaven, the stock market stood at 10,140, and most of the planes were on time . Two weeks later the skies belonged to the birds again and the stock market was a memory. By Halloween, every major city from New York to Moscow stank to the empty heavens and the world as it had been was a memory.

The event that came to be known as The Grimm Hour began at 3:03 p.m., eastern standard time, on the afternoon of October 31, 1999.

The term was a misnomer, of course, but within ten hours of the event, most of the scientists capable of pointing this out were either dead or insane. The name hardly mattered, in any case. What mattered was the effect.  
A powerful global earthquake fragmented the earth's crust, creating new continents and killing more than 3/4 of the world population. And then it happened.

Monsters. Grimm. They came from the earth like worms crawling.

And now...the land belongs to the them.

Present

It was October 31, 1000 in the Renmant calendar. This day should have been one of great joy for the birth of the third child of the Arc family, if not was the fact the child was born one month early. Adam Arc paced in the hallway just outside the bedroom where his wife had been bedridden for the past several months.

He had every good reason to be concerned. The first three beautiful children were born with no complications to the pregnancies. Perhaps since his beloved was in her mid forties that she had complications for this child. But looking into her family history however, it was common to have healthy babes even at this age.

So, Damien had to wonder, why was she having trouble with this babe?

A few times Jupiter almost miscarried, but the fetus had proven to be stubborn and strong. Even the family doctor was amazed that she had not lost this child when he has made inquiries that it might be for the best for an abortion to save Jupiter from such pain. He knew first hand that the chances of the child being born prematurely were extremely high. Even with such an advance of technology not all premature babies survive their first month.

It was best not to have Jupiter have a rise of hope for the survival of her third child. But the woman was just as stubborn, expressing whenever she could that so long as this child wanted to see the light of day then she will not take away its chance.

And although he feared for her health more than ever, Damien supported her decision all the way. He learned very early in their relationship that it was impossible to make her change her mind when she was like this. His love for her was far greater than his large amount of pride, which was something that was rare for any noble, especially for the head of the family.

"Father," a young voice stopped Damien in his tracks. "Is mother and the baby going to be okay?"

The hunter put on a brave face as he knelt down, hands on the tiny shoulders of his eldest. "I dearly hope so, Joan"

"My baby brother or sister is being born too early, isn't it? That's what one of the nurse maids said. Father, will the baby live?" Joan frowned, her concern growing as his mother's screams reached a higher pitch.

Damien eyed the head maid who held his frightened four year old daughter tightly in her arms. His little girl was on the verge of tears not because of the screams, but because she knew her mother was in pain. Little Arabella was a sensitive girl, and it hurt him to see her like this.

"I apologize, sir, I tried to keep the other girls quiet. They are all for the gossip than keeping such worries from a child. I tried to explain as best I could without hurting him when he asked me questions." The young woman nervously bit her lip.

Damien sighed, shaking his head.

"You did your best." then, he turned to his daughter. "I can't lie, but your little brother or sister may or may not survive."

"But there must be something we could do! As the eldest, it's my job to be sure my younger sister and the baby to be safe. Isn't the family doctor the best of the country? Couldn't he do something to help the baby live?"

Damien almost broke down and cried. When little Arabella was born, he made sure to raise Joan to be caring for her little sister. He knew Joan meant well, but not everything was all fairy tales with heroes coming in to save the day in the last possible moment.

"I am sure he will do everything he can. All we can do is pray that the baby will live to grow up with us. If it is God's willing that the baby will not, then I am sure your little brother or sister will be well loved in heaven."

Joan looked away. "You sure? Can babies be accepted even though they haven't lived for very long?"

"Didn't you know? All babies are Oum's children. I am sure He will accept this baby with open arms. And the baby won't be alone. There is your grandfather, remember? I am sure he will be happy to smother the baby with all the love in the world."

By now Damien couldn't hold back his tears. His father had died just this year, and the wound was still healing. Thomas Arc showered Damien's children with much love, as he held the same equality of love with his other grandchild by his deceased eldest daughter. There was no doubt in his mind that the old man would do the same with the one grandchild he couldn't be around at the birth.

Damien pulled his girl close into an embrace. He sincerely wished with all his heart that this new child will survive. If not for him, then at least for Jupiter's sake. His beloved wanted to bring this babe into the world. He knew she loved the child too much to have it dying in her arms for all she had gone through to this point.

In a moment the screaming stopped. Damien let go of his daughter as he straightened, anxiously staring down the door into the bedroom. In what felt like an eternity, when it was probably a span of a few minutes, one of the nurses stepped out.

"So? What's the news? Is Jupiter going to be fine?"

Damien couldn't bring himself to ask about the baby.

"Do not fear, she will be fine with some rest. But she is demanding to hold her new born son."

Of course, Damien wasn't really surprised at his wife's stubbornness. But there was something the nurse would not say that bothered him.

"Why is my son being held away from her? Is he even alive? I don't hear any screaming that usually takes place with this event." Concern bubbled in his chest.

"The babe is alive, but very weak. Dr. Coleman recommends not naming the boy until he is one hundred percent clear he will survive." The solemn expression across her young face gave Damien the idea the doubt was seriously high.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, the earl turned to the maid.

"Mary, could you please take the children to bed?"

The young woman nodded. With little Arabella in one arm, Mary reached out to gently pull on Joan's smaller hand. As he was snapped out of his little trance from the shock of the news, the girl started protesting.

"No! I want to see my brother. Please, father? I want to see my brother!" Tears were finally rolling down his round cheeks.

Mary wordlessly glanced at the hunter, not knowing what to do. Under normal circumstances she could easily calm the eldest child down. Suffice to say these were no normal circumstances, which she understood no amount of gentle words or sweet lullabies could ease Joan's pain. Life has been hard enough for her since her mother had been bedridden, rarely able to see her two healthy children.

With a sigh Damien knew he would regret this, but he knew if he did not then Joan would not rest and would attempt to sneak into the room. The earl dismissed Mary, holding his daughter's small hand. Together they stepped into the room to see a tired Mrs. Arc, and the profile of an anxious Dr. Coleman with a bundle in his arms.

" Jupiter!"

Damien rushed to his wife's side.

"Are you all right?"

Her red hair was damp and her skin had paled from the birthing process. She smiled weakly at him, all the love they shared could be felt all around the room. Damien took her hand in his, gently squeezing.

"I'm fine, dear. It's not like this is my first time giving birth you know." Jupiter laughed a little. "How's our new son? Can I hold him?"

The hunter glanced over at the doctor to see the man had sat down and reluctantly revealed the little face for Joan to see. Both parents watched as their eldest tentatively reached out to her little brother's cheek.

"How come he's not crying? Bella cried when she was born." Joan frowned when all her brother did was wiggle from the foreign contact.

"Because your brother is very weak, Joan. He doesn't have the strength to cry like other babies do." Dr. Coleman answered in his gentle manner.

Ethan looked over his shoulder to his parents. "Does he have a name yet?"

"I would like to name him Jaune." Jupiter offered.

A sigh from across the room expressed disappointment as the doctor shook his head.

"I have told you before, Mrs. Arc, not to name him just yet. The chances of him surviving until morning are slim."

"That does not mean I shouldn't name him!" Jupiter sat up. "He is my son, and he should have a name before he is taken from me!"

"I understand, but in doing so would make it harder for you to accept his death." Dr. Coleman barely whispered, reminding the others another child was present in the room.

"Father, is he going to die?" Joan stared with horrified eyes.

"I think it's time you go to bed, my dear."

If only he hadn't brought his son in here in the first place, Damien thought.

"But what about my brother?" The girl grew defensive. She was already emotionally attached to her youngest sibling.

"I'm sorry, daughter. All we can do is pray for a miracle."

For his wife and daughter's sake, Damien hoped more than anything that the newest addition to the family would survive the night.

* * *

Several hours later Jupiter was dozing with the small bundle in her arms. In a chair next to her bed Dr. Coleman didn't appear too comfortable as he slept, but she will make up for it in the morning. The man has been on duty during her time she was bedridden. It would do him some good to see his own family after so much strife and struggle these past few months.

As the mother of three began to fall asleep, she became aware of another presence in the room. One glance at the doctor sound asleep and still breathing put her in a sense of security.

But the room was still too dark for her eyes to see nothing more than an outline of a figure in the darkness. From the silhouette she guessed this was a man. Normally, she would have assumed it was her husband, for the silhouette was about the same height as Damien.

There was just something not entirely human with the shadowy figure. Jupiter's whole body tensed when a hand reached out in her horror towards her new born son.

Jupiter came from a large family in Mistrial where they could trace their roots for many generations into the mid sixteenth century. As a farm girl and second to oldest sister of four other girls, the woman grew up being a second mother and driving off arrogant boys away from her sisters when they were barely into their teenage years.

Those same instincts to protect her family were carried on to her children. Right now she wanted nothing more than to reach for a hidden dagger from her bedside table to drive off this strange entity. It was then to her horror that she couldn't move.

She couldn't do anything but watch as the hand lightly pressed onto her son's stomach. To her fascination she realized just how tiny her youngest son was, for the palm of the stranger's hand was bigger than his little round belly.

She could hear a faint chanting. Her ears almost couldn't recognize the words from her native tongue. With growing interest Jupiter stared at the shadowed figure in wonder. Even though her eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness she still couldn't see any definite features.

In what seemed to be an eternity the silhouette removed his hand from her son. Jupiter was about to ask the figure his name when the same hand that treated her son affectionately touched her forehead.

Words spoken in a language she had not heard in years whispered in her ear.

"Sleep well, Jupiter Arc. Be happy, because your son will save this world from damnation."

And with that ,Jupiter knew nothing more than darkness in sweet slumber.

* * *

The next morning she woke from the sound she had been praying for. Her son was wailing with all his might, the first real sign of a healthy life. Jupiter blinked away tears as she rocked her son as she cooed at him not to worry.

"Shh, little one. There's no need to cry, you're safe and sound here." She giggled at the sight of her youngest moving his little arms about.

Dr. Coleman was startled awake. He nearly fell out of his chair from the unexpected sound of crying. The doctor gasped in surprise when his eyes found the source of the wails. Dr. Coleman couldn't so much as breathe at the strange miracle he was witnessing. Just last night the child was too weak!

Within no time her husband was by her bed. Katalina smiled at him lovingly. She saw the relief and fatherly love of a new child between them in his blue eyes. There were dark circles under his eyes and his blond hair was in slight disarray. Yet the smile Damien had reflected he was truly grateful and delighted to welcome a new son to the world.

"Oum bless this child! It's a miracle he has survived. He's as healthy as a horse now!" Dr. Coleman exclaimed.

"Maybe my father has been watching over him." Damien spoke fondly.

Jupiter watched her son with a knowing smile. He might be the smallest child she had ever seen, but he had a strong set of lungs. As the boy calmed down and his dark hair fluffed from turning his head from side to side he opened his eyes for the first time.

She gasped at the strange eye coloring. At first she mistook the color as royal purple, like her favorite cotton soft bed sheets. But after the initial shock she could recognize her husband's blue in those eyes.

In all her life she had never seen the prettiest violet blue eyes as this child. Jupiter was amazed she had helped create such a beautiful creature into this world.

"Wow,Ju. His eyes are really beautiful"

" Yes,they are" the woman replied, her eyes never leaving her son as he blinked curiously at the world around him.

"He'll grow up to be as handsome as me." Her husband chuckled. "We'll have to watch out and keep the nobles off of him. They'll be lining up on our door to offer their girls."

"One look from me and they would be running back to their mothers." Jupiter promised.

That moment the maid Mary opened the door and Joan came rushing in. A sleepy Arabella yawned as she rubbed her eyes. The eldest sibling crawled onto the bed to get a closer look at his little brother.

"Look, he's opened his eyes!" Joan grinned like a kid in a candy shop.

"And it looks like he will live a long, happy life." Damien added. He kissed his wife on the cheek. "So, are we still going to name him Jaune, love?"

Jupiter thought for a moment before shaking her head. "No, an angel came by last night and gave him life."

"A real angel?" Joan stared at her mother wide eyed. "You saw a real angel? Did he have wings and a halo, mother?"

"No, the angel had nothing of the sort." the woman a laughed. "But I think he was our family's guardian."

"We have a guardian?" The girl tilted his head.

"In my family there is a legend of a guardian always watching us, ready to step in and protect us." The mother of three lowered her soft gaze to the son in her arms. "I never truly believed in those stories until now."

"Well, angel or guardian, I am grateful for the extra help." Vincent said as the young maid passed Arabella into his arms.

"Look, Bella. Your new little brother." The hunter introduced the pair.

"Brother!" Arabella pointed at the baby.

"Yes, you have a brothers now."

Damien then turned to his wife. "So his name will still be Jaune?"

Jupiter shook her head. "No, I have a better name in mind now."

"What's his name gonna be, mother?" Joan pressed.

" Micheal. Like the angel "

Damien nodded

"Micheal Arc. This is a good name. Welcome to the world, Micheal."

The newly named infant only stared at his father in wonder.

DUM,DUM,DUUUUUM !

Yes,Jaune is going to be the Micheal Myers of the RWBY Universe.


	2. Halloween

**Yes, here is a new chapter.  
Do not expect this to be the norm, I had already written this part a bit 'of time ago and I had decided to insert it in the first chapter.  
However, I noticed that the prologue would be too long, so I decided not to.** **Generally, if I'm not too busy, I need a week or more to update.  
** **Please, reviewed in many !**  


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I don't own Rwby and the Slasher Universe.

* * *

 **Chapter 1 : Halloween**

 **Vacuo**

It was 1010, and tonight, October 31, was a time for fun. It was Halloween. Perhaps even more than Christmas, it was the most innocent holiday on the calendar. Yes, more than Christmas, because Christmas celebrated a happy event, and jolly St. Nick was a benevolent symbol anyway. But Halloween's origins were darker, very much darker, and if the children celebrated it as a happy event like Christmas, it was a symptom of how far we'd come from the time when mankind respected the forces of evil.

Little Michael Arc's grandmother clucked her disapproval as the visiting rosy-faced ten year-old showed her the costume in the Woolworth box.

"What's that supposed to be?" she said, leaning forward in her recliner and adjusting her specs.

"A clown, Grandma." He ran his hand over the red and green nylon jester's costume, with matching cap with a pompom on top.

"A clown," she sighed.

"Now, Mother," Michael's mother, Jupiter, came to the rescue, "I know what you're going to say." "Well, it's true, darn it. We never had that five-and-dime junk when we grew up on the farm. We took Halloween seriously. Why, when we set up scarecrows and jack-o'-lanterns, it was because we were genuinely trying to scare off the bogeyman. Bogeyman, now he played real pranks and did some real damage. He didn't just go around like they do today, slapping people's clothes with socks filled with chalk-dust and soaping their windows."

"What did the Bogeyman do, Grandma?"

Jupiter shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I don't think Michael wants to hear that," she said looking significantly at her mother. "It might give him bad dreams."

But grandma wasn't taking the warning. "Nothing wrong with bad dreams. At least they remind us that things aren't hunky-dory in this world. Oum, everything is so clean and – phony these days. Just one big television commercial. Clown costumes!" she sighed, fingering the cheap material in the Woolworth box.

"What did the Bogeyman do?" Michael insisted. The silver-haired woman leaned forward confidently, a perverse smile lighting her pleasantly lined face.

"Well, if you were lucky, you got away with nothing worse than finding some of your chickens beheaded."

"Beheaded?"

"Their heads cut off" she explained with a relish. Micheal's eyes widened; his mother grimaced and picked up a copy of Look, riffling nervously through it.

"If you weren't lucky, you lost a cow or two."

"Unheaded?"

"Be-headed, yes."

"Were the heads just lying there next to the cows or were they... ?"

"Mother, that will be enough. Really!" Jupiter gasped, snapping the magazine shut. But grandma had warmed to the subject. Behind her spectacles, her blue eyes had drifted off to her girlhood, and her head nodded in memory of some awesome event.

"Once he burned somebody's barn down. Was it Winfield? No, Winterfield. Burnt Mr. Winterfield's barn down to the ground, livestock and all."

She looked at the wide-eyed boy, then at her horrified daughter, and realized she'd gone too far.

"Of course, Michael, we always suspected it wasn't the Bogeyman. Perhaps neighbors getting even with each other for some slight. In costumes and masks, it was easier to get away with that sort of thing. But I do remember one incident..." "Not the chimney story" begged Jupiter.

"Oh, tell me the chimney story!" implored the grandson.

"Well," the woman said, "it was Halloween, nineteen-ought... nine? Nineteen ten?" "Just tell it" said Michael. Even at 10 he recognized a boring attack of grandma's Whatyear-was-it-again?

"Yes. It was Halloween, but way after midnight. Maybe two or three in the morning. We'd all gone to sleep, leaving the fire burning in the parlor because it was a terribly cold night. Well, suddenly I hear my brother Jimmy shouting, 'Smoke! Smoke! Wake up everybody, the house is on fire!' I grabbed my robe and rushed down the stairs right behind my daddy, who'd picked up the bucket of water we always kept filled at the top of the landing. Sure enough, the whole downstairs was thick with woodsmoke. But I couldn't see any fire. The smoke was coming from the fireplace, and it looked as though the flue had been closed."

"What's a flue?" Grandma explained what a flue was.

"We put out the embers and opened the doors and windows to let the smoke out. Then daddy looked at the flue and – glory be – it was open. Something was jamming up the chimney. Now, we didn't have a ladder on account of daddy having just taken it apart to replace some rotten rungs. So Jimmy had to shinny himself up the drainpipe to find out what was obstructing the chimney."

"What was it?" the boy asked, while his mother shook her head in painful anticipation.

"A dead hog." "Wow!"

"Someone – or something – had cut out our hog's throat and laid it atop the chimney."

She laughed humorlessly.

"The thing is, that hog weighed near three hundred pounds. How did it get up there without a ladder? Without our hearing anything? Without our dog, Toby, raising hob with his barking like he usually did when he heard something prowling? Without disturbing a gate or making a footprint? Answer me that, Mister Woolworth Clown Costume."

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. 'Twas the Bogeyman, that's all there is to it."

"Mother, that will do!" Jupiter snapped.

"The boy's been having problems enough at night without your adding to them."

"Problems? What kind... ? Um, Michael honey, run into the bedroom and try the costume on for Grandma. I'll tuck it if it's too baggy."

"It's supposed to be baggy" said the little boy, carrying the box into the next room.

"Now, what's this about 'problems'?" she demanded of her daughter. Jupiter Arc ran a hand through her curly blond hair.

"I told you, he's been getting into fights at school. At home, too, with his sisters. He's been wetting his bed again, which he hasn't done in three years."

"Fighting about what?"

"Mother, can we just forget... ?" The old woman's eyes narrowed. "No, we can't. What kind of trouble is that boy in?"

"Voices" Jupiter finally blurted after a minute's tortured pause. " He hears voices."

"Oh, my Oum!" the old woman cried. She exchanged a long, meaningful look with her daughter.

"I'm afraid to ask what these voices say."

" 'They tell me to say I hate people.' That's how Michael put it when I asked him. Don thinks maybe we ought to send Michael to someone."

"You mean a psychiatrist?" "Yes. Maybe I can ask some help to Ozpin"

"I don't put much stock in psychiatrists, but I don't suppose it could hurt. And I don't think it will help, if it's what I'm thinking."

The younger woman began to get agitated. "I know what you're thinking, and that's why I didn't want to get into this with you. You're going to say that that's how it started with Grandpa "

"We have to face up to it, child, that is how it started with your father's father."

"Mother, all children hear imaginary voices. Don't you remember my Bobby Bear, who used to... ?" "It's not the same. At least, it's not something you should ignore. Does the boy have dreams?"

Her daughter nodded.

"Does he remember any?" "Yes, and they're very violent."

Her face reddened and she turned her eyes away from her mother's piercing gaze.

"Mother, when Grandpa ... that is... Well, you've never spoken to us about that incident, and I think there are enough similarities..." "Hush, here comes Michael. When you get home, call me as soon as you can, I think the time has come to tell you everything. Ah, there's my little boy," she cooed as Michael came back into the room with a rustle, "right out of a Punch 'n' Joan show."

He stood before them, an angel in red and green nylon, elastic ankle and wrist-bands making the costume cling at the extremities and bag out everywhere else. A ruff around the neck and the little droopy pompom cap completed the charming picture.

"Grandma's baby!" she laughed, clasping the boy to her bosom.

"Jupiter, please fetch me some cold cream and lipstick from the tray in my bedroom. Might as well complete the picture."

"I don't want makeup," Michael protested.

"Of course you do. You don't want anyone to guess who you are when you go around playing pranks."

"I'm not going to play pranks. I'm just going to ask for candy."

"You do that, child. You just have an innocent, Woolworth kind of Halloween."

She saw them out the door. "Remember, Ju, call me as soon as you can."

"I will, Mother. And don't worry."

"I won't," she said, shutting the door. She began to tremble, wondering if she should have said something to her daughter about Grandpa's dreams.

* * *

 **Vale**

In a small town, the opening of a new store is big news. It wasn't as big a deal to Ruby Rose as it was to some; her mother and sister, for instance.  
And yet, she had not heard a single word about a new store. Even by Yang. Which it was odd, given that this new store had appeared from nowhere just ten meters from where they lived. Also the name of the store was strange: Stranger Things. I mean ... it was in the name!

Maybe it was a mask shop. Today was the day Halloween, after all. Perhaps she could find a new costume here, instead of going into town .

She looked at the door . It was adorned by a small square sign, red letters on a white background. OPEN it said, and OPEN was all it said. Ruby looked the small building, and her heart began to beat a little faster.

You're not going in there, are you? she asked herself. I mean, if it really is opening today , you're not going in there, even right?

Why not? she answered herself.

Well ... because the window's still soaped over. The shade on the door's still drawn. You go in there, anything could happen to you. Anything.

Sure. Like the guy who runs it is a psycho or something, he dresses up in his mother's clothes and stabs his customers. Right.

Well, forget it, the timid part of her mind said, although that part sounded as if it already knew it had lost. There's something funny about it. This thought was too much for Ruby. She passed slowly into the shade of the awning and approached the door of Stranger Things.

As she put her hand on the big old-fashioned brass doorknob, it occurred to her that the sign must be a mistake. It had probably been sitting there, just inside the door, for tomorrow, and someone had put it up by accident. She couldn't hear a single sound from behind the drawn shade; the place had a deserted feel. But since he had come this far, he tried the knob . . . and it turned easily under his hand. The latch clicked back and the door of Stranger Things swung open.

It was dim inside, but not dark. Ruby could see that track lighting had been installed, and a few of the spots mounted on the tracks were lit. They were trained on a number of glass display cases which were arranged around the large room. The cases were, for the most part, empty. The spots highlighted the few objects which were in the cases. The floor, which had been bare wood when this was Mistral Realty and Insurance, had been covered in a rich wall-towall carpet the color of burgundy wine. The walls had been painted eggshell white. A thin light, as white as the walls, filtered in through the soaped display window.

Well, it's a mistake, just the same, Ruby thought. She hasn't even got his stock in yet. Whoever put the OPEN sign in the door by mistake left the door unlocked by mistake, too. The polite thing to do in these circumstances would be to close the door again and walk away. Yet he was loath to leave. She was, after all, actually seeing the inside of a new store. Her mother would talk to her the rest of the afternoon when she heard that. The maddening part was this: she wasn't sure exactly what she was seeing. There were half a dozen items in the display cases, and the spotlights were trained on them-a kind of trial run, probably-but he couldn't tell what they were. She could, however, tell what they weren't: spool beds and moldy crank telephones.

"Hello?" she asked uncertainly, still standing in the doorway. "Is anybody here?"

She was about to grasp the doorknob and pull the door shut again when a voice replied, "I'm here."

A tall figure-what at first seemed to be an impossibly tall figure-came through a doorway behind one of the display cases. The doorway was masked with a dark velvet curtain. Ruby felt a momentary and quite monstrous cramp of fear. Then the glow thrown by one of the spots slanted across the man's face, and Ruby's fear was allayed. The guy was quite old, and his face was very kind. He looked at Ruby with interest and pleasure.

"Your door was unlocked," the girl began, "so I thought-" "Of course it's unlocked," the tall man said.

"I decided to open for a little while this afternoon as a kind of ... of preview. And you are my very first customer. Come in, my dear. Enter freely, and leave some of the happiness you bring!"

He smiled and stuck out his hand. The smile was infectious. Ruby felt an instant liking for the proprietor of this shop. She had to step over the threshold and into the shop to clasp the tall man's hand, and he did so without a single qualm.

The door swung shut behind her and latched of its own accord. Ruby did not notice. She was too busy noticing that the tall man's eyes were dark blue-exactly the same shade as her father . The tall man's grip was strong and sure, but not painful. All the same, there was something unpleasant about it. Something . . . smooth. Too hard, somehow.

"I'm pleased to meet you," Ruby said. Those dark-blue eyes fastened on his face like hooded railroad lanterns.

"I am equally pleased to make your acquaintance," the tall man said "My name is Jebediah Morningside . And you are-?"

" Ruby. Ruby Rose."

"Very good, Ms Rose . And since you are my first customer, I think I can offer you a very special price on any item that catches your fancy."

"Well, thank you," the girl said, "but I don't really think I could buy anything in a place like this. I don't get my allowance until Friday, and-" He looked doubtfully at the glass display cases again. "Well, you don't look like you've got all your stock in yet."

The tall man smiled. His teeth were crooked, and they looked rather yellow in the dim light, but Brian found the smile entirely charming just the same. Once more he found himself almost forced to answer it.

"No," Jebediah said, "no, I don't. The majority of my stock, as you put it-will arrive later this evening. But I still have a few interesting items. Take a look around, young Ms. Rose. I'd love to have your opinion, if nothing else ... and I imagine you have a mother, don't you? Of course you do. A fine young girl like yourself is certainly no orphan. Am I right?"

Ruby nodded, still smiling.

"Sure. Ma's home right now."

An idea struck her.

"Would you like me to bring her down?"

The tall man shook his head.

"Not at all," he said. "That's exactly what I don't want. She would undoubtedly want to bring a friend, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah," Ruby said, thinking of her.

"Perhaps even two friends, or three. No, this is better, Ruby. May I call you Ruby?" "Sure !" "Thank you. And you will call me ,since I am your elder, if not necessarily your better-agreed?"

" Ehm...Sure ?"

Ruby wasn't sure what Mr. Morningside meant by elders and betters, but he loved to listen to this guy talk.

"Yes, this is much better."

The Tall man rubbed his long hands together and they made a hissing sound. This was one thing Ruby was less than crazy about. The tall man's hands rubbing together that way sounded like a snake which is upset and thinking of biting.

"You will tell your mother, perhaps even show her what you bought, should you buy something-" Ruby considered telling that he had a grand total of two lien in his pocket and decided not to. " -and she will tell her friends, and they will tell their friends ... you see, Ruby? You will be a better advertisement than the local paper could ever think of being! I could not do better if I hired you to walk the streets of the town wearing a sandwich board!"

"Well, if you say so" the girl agreed. She had no idea what a sandwich board was, but he was quite sure he would never allow herself to be caught dead wearing one.

"It would be sort of fun to look around. Go on, look " Mr. Morningside said, waving his hand. So Ruby looked.

There were only five items in the biggest glass case, which looked as if it might comfortably hold twenty or thirty more. One was a pipe. Another was a very beautifull picture of a Bewolf . The third item was a silver sphere . The fourth was a piece of polished rock with a hollow full of crystal chips in its center. And the fifth...the fifth was a sort of strange box . She pointed to the object.

"What's that one?"

She was thinking to herself that this was very odd stock indeed for a smalltown store. She had taken a strong and instant liking to this strange, but if the rest of his stuff was like this, Ruby didn't think he'd be doing business in this town.

"Ah!" the tall man said. "That's an interesting item! Let me show it to you!"

He crossed the room, went around the end of the case, pulled a fat ring of keys from his pocket, and selected one with hardly a glance. He opened the case and took the box out carefully.

"Hold out your hand, Ruby"

"Gee, maybe I better not," the girl said.

"Why ever not?" Mr. Morningside asked, raising his eyebrows-but there was really only one brow; it was bushy and grew across the top of his nose in an unbroken line. "Well, I'm pretty clumsy."

"Nonsense," the tall man replied. "I know clumsy children when I see them. You're not one of that breed."

He dropped the box into Ruby's palm. The girl looked at it resting there in some surprise; she hadn't even been aware his palm was open until she saw the box resting on it. It certainly didn't feel like a box of wood; it felt more like...

"It feels like stone," she said dubiously, and raised her silver eyes to look at Mr. Morningside .

"Both wood and stone" the tall man said. "It's petrified."

"Petrified" Ruby marvelled. She looked at the box closely, then ran one finger along its side. "It must be old."

"Over two thousand years old," Mr. Morningside agreed gravely.

" Wow!" Ruby said. She jumped and almost dropped the box. She closed his hand around it in a fist to keep it from falling to the floor ... and at once a feeling of oddness and distortion swept over her. She suddenly felt-what? Dizzy? No; not dizzy but far. As if part of her had been lifted out of her body and swept away. She could see the tall man looking at her with interest and amusement, and Mr. Morningside's eyes suddenly seemed to grow to the size of tea-saucers. Yet this feeling of disorientation was not frightening; it was rather exciting, and certainly more pleasant than the slick feel of the wood had been to his exploring finger.

"Close your eyes!" Mr. Morningside invited. "Close your eyes, Ruby, and tell me what you feel!"

The girl closed her eyes and stood there for a moment without moving. She did not see Mr. Morningside 's upper lip lift, doglike, over his large, crooked teeth for a moment in what might have been a grimace of pleasure or anticipation. He had a vague sensation of movement-a corkscrewing kind of movement. A sound, quick and light. She knew that sound.

" A music !"

The tall man smiled and ruffled the girl's black hair, breaking the spell.

"I like you, Ruby. I wish all my customers could be as full of wonder as you are. Life would be much easier for a humble tradesman such as myself if that were the way of the world."

"How much ... how much would you sell something like this for?" Ruby asked.

"Oh now," Mr. Morningside said, steepling his fingers below his chin and looking at the girl roguishly. "With an item like that-and with most of the good things I sell, the really interesting things-that would depend on the buyer. What the buyer would be willing to pay. What would you be willing to pay, Ruby?"

"I don't know," the girl said, thinking of the two lien in his pocket, and then gulped: "A lot!"

The tall man threw back his head and laughed heartily. Ruby noticed when she did that she'd made a mistake about the man. When she first came in, she had thought Mr. Morningside 's hair was gray. Now he saw that it was only silver at the temples. He must have been standing in one of the spotlights, Ruby thought. After some second, Long fingers were snapping under her nose. Mr. Morningside's fingers. Ruby came out of her daze and saw the tall man looking at her, amused.

"Are you there, Ruby?"

"Sorry," the girl said, and blushed. She knew she should hand the box back, hand it back and get out of here, but she couldn't seem to let it go. Mr. Morningside was staring into her silver eyes again, and once more she found it impossible to look away.

"So," the tall man said softly. "Let us say, Ruby, that you are the buyer. Let us say that. How much would you pay for that box?"

Ruby felt despair like a rockslide weight his heart.

"All I've got is-" Mr. Morningside 's'left hand flew up.

"Shhh!" he said sternly. "Bite your tongue! The buyer must never tell the seller how much he has! You might as well hand the vendor your wallet, and turn the contents of your pockets out on the floor in the bargain! If you can't tell a lie, then be still! It's the first rule of fair trade, my dear."

His eyes were so large and dark. Ruby felt that she was swimming in them.

"There are two prices for this box, Ruby. Half ... and half. One half is cash. The other is a deed. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Ruby said.

"The cash price for that box is two lien" Mr. Morningside said. "Does that seem fair?"

"Yes !" Ruby said. Her voice was far and wee. She felt herself dwindling, dwindling away ... and approaching the point where any clear memory would cease.

"Good" the tall man's caressing voice said."Our trading has progressed well thus far. As for the deed ...see, Ruby, this is not just a box. It is a puzzle."

" A puzzle ?" asked the little girl.

Mr. Morningside nodded quickly. " Exact, my dear. Now, I'll sell you this puzzle ... if you promise me that you will be able to solve it. You can do it for me, Ruby? "

"Sure! I'm very clever" the girl said with praid.

After 2 minutes she felt bewildered ... but she also felt very good, as if she had just awakened from a refreshing early afternoon nap.

"And come again," the tall man said, just before he shut the door.

Ruby looked at it. The sign hanging there now read CLOSED.

The next day, the shop and his mysterious owner... would be gone without a trace.

* * *

 **Vacuo**

Joan Arc, nude except for a pair of panties with red valentines printed on them, sat before her mirror brushing her long blond hair. She sang to herself, stressing each third note as she pulled the tortoise-shell brush downwards to her shoulders.

She was especially happy this evening because the house was empty, a rare occasion indeed. The house being empty meant no parent to bug her, no sisters or brother to burst in on her or try to pinch her boobs or ass, or maybe peek at her through the keyhole. More importantly, it meant that she could make out with Danny on a couch or maybe even in bed without having to worry about interruptions. Fooling around in cars wasn't terribly satisfying anymore. Now that it was getting cold, you had to roll up the windows and keep the heater on and it got stuffy and steamy. And now that she and Danny had gone all the way, she was eager to do it with him in a civilized fashion. Danny's suggestion of a motel was not what she meant by civilized fashion.

The doorbell rang.

"Oh, Oum, he's here already!" she muttered, snatching up her unsexy bulky chenille robe and stepping into fuzzy slippers. She looked at the alarm clock on the table. It was a quarter to seven. Danny was fifteen minutes early.

"I'll kill him. Look at me. Yuchh."

The doorbell went off again, long and insistent.

"Yeah, I'm coming, I'm coming!"

Though she knew she'd end up undressed anyway, she'd at least wanted to start clothed for Danny, and clothed in a halfway decent way, for crying out loud, and not like some frumpy washerwoman. She galumphed down the stairs, getting really pissed off, and flung open the door.

"Goddamn it, Danny, you told me..." "Trick or treat!"

There were eight of them, holding shopping bags. A few also held UNICEF boxes with slots in them for coins to give to their class charity. Their uniforms were all cheap and store-bought except for one girl tricked out in her mother's peasant skirt and blouse and a gypsy shawl. There was a pirate, a cowboy, a ballerina, two Wonder Women in identical five-and-dime outfits, the gypsy girl, a space man, and a clown. The costumes were chintzy and looked as if they'd tear if you stuck your tongue out at them. They all wore masks, but Joan identified most of them. And of course, she guessed who the clown was, as she'd put the finishing touches on his outfit herself. "Trick or treat!" they repeated.

"Oh yeah?" Joan teased with a smile. "And what if I don't give you any treat?"

The children stood silently, puzzled. No one had ever denied them. They just assumed you filled their bags with goodies. If you turned them down, they wouldn't know what tricks to play. Judy stood in the doorway enjoying their discomfort for a moment. To her right, on a little table in the hall, were six bowls filled with candy corn, Tootsie Rolls, Baby Ruths, Good 'n' Plenty, popcorn, and Hershey Kisses.

"Huh? What are you gonna do if I don't give you anything?"

They shrugged, shuffled their feet, giggled nervously. Then one of them said, "We're gonna kill you."

Joan sucked in her breath."Who said that?"

The children looked at each other, then looked back at her.

"Michael Arc, was that you? Because if it was, it's not funny, and I'm telling mother and father when they come home."

"I'm not Michael Arc, I'm a clown."

Joan caught the glint of Danny's car turning into the street.

"Okay, kids, you win. Hold out your bags."

She stepped to the bowls and grabbed handfuls of candy, showering it into each bag. Then she took up the dish of pennies and dropped four or five into each of the contribution boxes.

"Thank you," they said politely. "Goodbye. Happy Halloween," they shouted over their shoulders as they toddled of to their next house.

Joan closed the door and bolted up the stairs two at a time, stripping out of her robe as she did. When she reached the top of the landing she kicked of her fuzzies and threw the robe into her closet, grabbing a blouse and skirt, rummaging through drawers for a bra and a pair of knee-socks and a sweater. She donned these in record time, and when the doorbell rang she was ready in a demure collegiate-looking outfit. Although both she and Danny knew where they were going to end up tonight, she decided she should at least look a little hard to get, otherwise Danny would think she was fast, and that would get around school.

She caught her breath, then descended the stairs in stately steps. She opened the door calmly, as if she'd almost forgotten they had a date.

"Oh, Danny, it's you."

The tall, muscular boy cocked his head. "Of course it's me. Who'd you expect, Norman Bates?"

"No, I thought it was some more kids trick-or-treating. Come in."

He entered and shut the door behind him.

"I thought we'd do a little trick-or-treating of our own," he said, putting his arms around her. "First you give me some of those Hershey Kisses, Then I play with your Tootsie Rolls, then we have some Good 'n' Plenty. Yummm."

He buried his lips in the nape of her neck. Joan giggled, then squirmed out of his grasp.

"That's what you think. Look at you. You dress in jeans and a polo shirt and you expect a girl to strip off her clothes?"

He laughed. "What does it matter what we have on? It's what we're going to have off that counts."

He lunged for her again but she ducked out of his grasp.

"Not so fast, buster. First of all, it's not even dark yet. Second of all, I'm worried that more kids are going to come around and interrupt us while we're... uh, discussing homework. And third of all, I don't even know if I feel like doing anything. You take a lot for granted, you know."

"Yeah, I'm a real animal," he said, pretending to smack himself on the wrist.

"Besides, my mother and father'll be home any second," she said, flouncing away into the kitchen.

He followed close on her heels.

"The hell they will be. You told me they always go to check the boundaries on Halloween because it's the day when the Grimm are most active. Hey, what are you doing with that knife?"

From the drawer under the sink, Joan had removed a long carving knife and now held it menacingly above her head.

"I'm going to cut off your whatsamajiggy, that's what I'm going to do," she hissed like a witch.

"Hey, come on now," Danny said, backing away toward the kitchen counter, "that's not funny. You could hurt someone with that thing."

"That's the whole idea, my pretty," she said, sounding a little like the Wicked Witch of the West. She rushed at him, and he jumped out of the way as the blade plunged to the hilt into... ...a fat pumpkin.

Judy laughed. "You goof. I'm just making a jack-o'-lantern."

Danny stood plastered against the far wall of the kitchen, panting.

"Oh, that's funny. That's terribly funny. Some sense of humor you have. Ha ha ha. You could have killed someone, for crying out loud. "

"I am a hunter in training, remember? Use a knife is part of my duties. Now, help me cut the cap off this thing, will you? The sooner you do, the sooner we can do our homework."

Danny caught his breath, then relieved her of the treacherous eight-inch blade and began carefully sawing around the top of the pumpkin until the crown came off. He set this aside, then called for a large cooking spoon and began scooping the seeds and stringy pulp out of the shell.

"Looks like he has more brains than you do."

"Shut up and finish the job" she said, curling her arms around him from behind.

"I'm getting hungry, and it's not for pumpkin seeds."

Her hands slid down his chest and belly, and Danny's knees went weak. Then he took up the knife again and sliced into the side of the pumpkin.

"Baby, I'm going to set a new speed record for pumpkin cutting."

Deftly he cut out two triangular eyes and a triangular nose, then a long, wide mouth with jagged teeth.

"Got a candle?"

"What for?"

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "For the pumpkin, stupid."

He gazed unbelievingly at her, then said, "Oh, I get it."

He shook his head. "I sometimes wonder if women don't have dirtier minds than men."

"Lucky for you they do" she said, producing a stubby candle from the pantry.

He cut a socket in the base of the pumpkin, lit the candle and set it inside. Then he bore a few little air holes in the cap with a smaller knife to allow the flame oxygen.

They cleaned up while Joan put the cutlery away while Danny carried the jack-o'-lantern out to the front porch of the white clapboard house. It glowed intensely in the cool autumn air, projecting its grotesque smile to the dozens of other jack-o'-lanterns that lined the placid street. Danny was not a particularly intellectual boy, but for a moment he looked out at the row of shimmering orange pumpkin-faces and wondered what dark forces these totems were once intended to repel. The night was quiet and starry, with a slight breeze starting up from the north – good football weather, Danny reflected.

From somewhere down the street came the dim echo of "Trick or treat!" shouted by a roving band of children. For the first time Danny wondered about all these traditions – jack-o'-lanterns, paper witches and cardboard skeletons, trick-or-treating, apple-dunking, ghosts and goblins. But he didn't wonder long. He was getting cold. Joan was just finishing sponging up the orange pumpkin juice from the kitchen counter. She dried her hands on a paper towel, then turned to find Danny.

"Boo!" Joan's heart almost pounded out of her chest.

"God almighty, you scared the hell out of me!"

She gasped, collapsing into Danny's arms. He'd donned a rubber fright-mask, a Frankenstein face with sunken eyes and a livid scar across the cheek. He held her tightly, feeling her breasts heaving with fright through her sweater. He dug his fingers under the sweater and pulled her blouse-tail out of her skirt, then clamped his hands over the warm flesh of her back. She murmured and responded eagerly with her pelvis. He found the hook-andeye of her bra straps and, after a brief fumble or two, managed to unfasten them and run his hands forward until they cupped her breasts. He still had his Frankenstein mask on.

"Take that thing off."

"You take your thing off, and I'll take my thing off."

"It's a deal."

He stripped off the mask and took her by the hand to the foot of the stairs.

"Are you sure about your parents?"

"They won't back till ten at least."

" And your sisters?"

" Arabella is at her friend's house, Amber is with the twins and they are all at a party "

"And Michael?"

"I told you, he's trick-or-treating. We have time, but not all night, so no more yakking, huh?"

"No more yakking."

She turned her back on him and sauntered up the stairs, wiggling her behind enticingly and stripping out of her sweater and blouse before she'd reached the landing. Danny followed like a hungry puppy, tossing his own clothes off as he went along.

* * *

He stood in the shadow of the tall hedgerow, looking and listening. He had seen them necking in the kitchen, then Danny had come out on the porch for a minute to set the jack-o'-lantern down. When Danny returned, they had gone upstairs. A few minutes later, the light in Joan's bedroom had gone off.

Now, above the rustle of the wind in the crisp leaves of the huge oaks on the front lawn, he could hear their sighs, moans, and giggles. And they filled him with murderous hatred. The voice in his head had become subdued for the moment as he listened to Joan and Danny, not really understanding the significance of their utterances except that it had to do with love. He had heard similar sounds coming from his mother and father's room. But he had felt warmly toward them. They were making each other happy, his father and mother, and that made him happy too. Then why did he feel such poisonous rage against his sister and her boyfriend? It was the voice.

The voice stirred up the hatred. It had done so in his dreams, and now it was doing so in real life. It had begun with the strange pictures in his head at night, pictures of people he had never seen – oh, maybe in comic books or on television, but never in real life. People in strange costumes, animal skins, armor, leather, drinking and dancing wildly around a fire. One couple in particular. They looked like Joan and Danny, madly in love with each other, dancing in a circle around the huge bonfire, while he, Michael, stood in the crowd hating them, burning up with jealousy. Then a voice had come into his head while he dreamt, a voice telling him to stop the dancing lovers. The voice had become louder, clearer, and more demanding lately, and its dictates more compelling. He had begun to believe that if he listened to the voice, did what it told him to do, maybe the voice would go away and leave him alone. It was no longer a dream voice. It spoke to him during the waking time too. It had spoken loudly to him tonight, even as he went from house to house begging candy, even as he played games at the party. It had directed him to return home at once.

Looking around to make certain he wasn't being observed, he slipped across the lawn past the front porch, ducking stealthily to avoid the orange glare of the jack-o'-lantern. He sidled along the shingles on the side of the house and tiptoed up the stairs of the side door. He turned the knob and opened the door. He wasn't surprised. People didn't lock their doors in Haddonfield; what was there to fear? He slipped into the kitchen and crossed to the sink.

Go ahead, the voice told him, you know what to do.

He opened the drawer and reached in. His fingers enclosed the thing he was looking for, and he withdrew it from the drawer. It was the butcher knife. He touched the tip with the meat of his index-finger. It pricked him. He ran his thumb along the edge of the eight-inch blade. It left a thin neat trail of blood. He glided out of the kitchen and into the parlor, where he paused, listening. He heard them talking while they dressed and straightened up. He pressed himself against the wall as footsteps creaked down the stairs.

First he saw Danny, in jeans and blue-striped polo shirt. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed as if he'd been kissed with hard passion. Then Joan, a sheet wrapped around her, which she held with her thumb against the base of her spine. The intruder gazed at her bare, dimpled buttocks and slender legs, then he fingered the blade of his knife, trembling. They were kissing, and at last she let go of the sheet, so that all that held it up was the pressure of his body against hers.

"Do you have to go?"

He held his watch up behind her head.

"I do. Your familiy'll be home any second."

She ran her hand up his thigh.

"How about a quick one?"

"Here? Now? Are you crazy?"

"You are such a chicken."

"I'd be a roast chicken if your father discovered us doing it in the hall as they walked in the door."

He pushed her away and the sheet fell to the floor. His eyes bulged as he took her body in one last time.

"Jeez, it's tempting... No. No, I need to go."

He picked the sheet up and wrapped it around her once again.

"See, chivalry is not dead."

"Too bad. Will you call me tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Promise?"

"I'd have to be crazy not to, wouldn't I?"

They kissed one last time and parted like Romeo leaving Juliet. Joan shut the door behind him, leaned against it for a moment, and moaned in remembrance of recent ecstasies. The she trotted back up the stairs.

He stepped out of the shadows of the parlor and furtively made his way up the stairs, pausing at the landing to look and listen. Her clothes were still strewn in a trail from the top of the stairs to her bed. He followed them like a hunter tracking the spoor of his prey. He stopped outside her open door, peering inside. She sat in her red valentine bikini panties, brushing her hair before the mirror on her dresser. She hummed a tune in her pretty voice.

He stepped into the room and was halfway across when she saw him. Her eyes clouded and her eyebrows knit with puzzlement. She crossed her wrists in front of her breasts. She recognized him through his mask and called his name, bewildered.

"Michael, is this a joke...?"

He continued coming at her.

"Why are you here? Do you need something..."

The first slash of the knife caught her on the wrist, splashing blood across her chest and legs. She looked at the wound with more surprise than pain. She couldn't believe it was happening. Then she realized. It was too fast. Even the strongest aura would protect her from this.

She jumped to her feet and backed away to the wall, knocking over her chair.

"What are you doing? What are you doing?" she cried.

As he raised the blade again, she held her hand out to protect herself. He slashed the hand viciously, and it dropped limply to her side. Now she was shrieking insanely as she grasped what was happening. He plunged the knife into her right breast, and a great gout of scarlet blood spurted out of the wound and soaked his hand and wrist. He thrust the blade into her belly. At what point she died, he didn't know, for now that she was defenseless he stuck the knife into her again and again, jamming it into her breasts, belly, groin, arms, legs, and throat.

He stabbed her fifty times if he stabbed her once, exultation sweeping over him like no joy he had ever known. The paroxysms began to die down and he stood over her, spent. It was almost impossible to recognize this piece of hacked flesh. Blood was everywhere, and the sour odor of it rose up from his hands, intoxicating him.

The gory little figure turned and stepped over the fallen furniture and scattered clothing and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. He reached into a bowl on the kitchen counter and stuffed a cookie into his mouth, then opened the refrigerator door and removed a bottle of milk. He emptied half of it into his mouth with his bloody sleeve, leaving a streak of red and white across his cheek. He opened the side door and went outside, still carrying the butcher knife.

He stepped out onto the lawn and stood there for a minute indecisively. At that moment, a dark sedan pulled up to the curb.

The assassin made no attempt to flee, but stood on the lawn waiting for the occupants of the car to get out.

After a moment both front doors opened and a man and woman emerged. They took two or three paces toward the house, then saw him and stopped, staring at the figure in the bloodstained clown costume with a blood-clotted butcher knife in his hand.

The man reached out and removed the mask from the boy's face.

"Michael...?"

* * *

 **And so our little Michael/Jaune has made his first murder. Are you not proud of him?  
And RWBY got her hands on a certain box. And yes, the shop owner was the Tall Man of the Phantasm series.  
In the next chappy will be the turn of Blake, while Michael and RWBY will face the consequences of their actions...**


	3. The Day a New Demon was Born

**Here's the new chapter!**

 **Before you start reading it,** **I have some apologies to make to the fans of Blake, I really tried to even enter his part, but the chapter would become too long.** **Don't worry, the next update will be all over her!** **Enjoy the chapter and please reviewed as much as possible ;)**

* * *

 **I don't own Rwby and the slasher universe.**

* * *

 **Chapter 2 : The Day a New Demon was Born**

They didn't know what to call him, and they didn't know what to do with him. He wasn't a man, so he couldn't be tried for murder. He wasn't even an adolescent. And although the law respecting juveniles was broad enough to cover a six-year-old boy, it didn't seem appropriate that laws designed to handle vicious teenage punks, muggers, purse snatchers, and car thieves, should apply to him. To look at him, during the hearing before the magistrate, was to see a handsome, almost pretty, rosy-cheeked little lad in a neat tweed suit, a tie, and highly polished shoes. His eyes were warm, his smile genuine, and when he spoke it was with artless sincerity. In fact, more than one newspaper report described him as "charming." Yet the boy had, by his own admission, stabbed his sister thirty-one times at least, the coroner testified. Probably more.

The Arc were one of the most famous family of hunters in the world and, for this reason, the General James Ironwood himself had been called to judge the case.

The man concluded that the boy was either mad or lying. He questioned the little fellow very closely about whether some other person had done the deed and thrust the blade into the child's hand. But the boy's insistence on his story, and the absence of any other evidence – despite the fact that poor Danny, Joan's lover, was treated very roughly by police detectives, and came within an ace of being accused – compelled the magistrate to declare it an act of madness. Yet, knowing what sort of place the boy would be sent to, and what sort of people he would be thrown in with, the general agonized over the verdict that would deliver Michael into the hands of those howling maniacs and their gangster keepers that he had seen with his own eyes on a recent official visit to the downstate center at Smith's Grove.

Looking ashen and exhausted, he reconvened the hearing a week later.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the court, in twenty-two years as a loyal servant of the law , I have never been asked to make as remotely cruel a decision as the one I am now compelled to make. Even as I speak I am aware that I'm struggling to keep my eyes from gazing upon the accused in this bizarre episode, for I know that if I do, I may falter in my duty. Nevertheless, absent any evidence to the contrary, absent any witnesses, absent any other person to come forth with a confession, absent any contradiction in the child's story, absent any regret on the part of the accused, and above all, absent any sense of right or wrong, which is the foundation of the law with respect to the criminally insane – I have no choice but to remand Michael Arc to the Smith's Grove Sanitarium , where he shall be placed in the care of a resident psychiatrist who shall report to this court regularly. His case shall be reviewed no less than twice a year, and upon recommendation of the psychiatrist the boy may be released back into the custody of his parents.

"Although it is impossible for me to conceive a lengthy stay for Michael, whose brutal act I believe to have been the product of a passing madness that I hope has discharged itself forever from his system, I am obliged to cite the law concerning criminally insane minors, namely, that at the age of twenty-one they must be brought before a magistrate for a criminal proceeding.

"If Michael is still at Smith's Grove 10 years hence, he shall be brought before the court on the day of his twentieth birthday, where he shall be tried as an adult for the murder of Joan Arc. I have," he said, holding up a sheaf of papers, "prepared a list of supplementary instructions for the care of Michael at Smith's Grove, in the hope that the problems that exist in such institutions shall not damage his chances of returning to society as a normal, healthy, fully functional human being. This court is dismissed."

He rose, and the courtroom, which was composed almost exclusively of newspaper reporters, rose with him. He pivoted and, still averting his eyes from the boy he had just sentenced to the living death of an insane asylum, passed through the rear door of the courtroom. Michael's parents sobbed as the boy was led out of the room by a stern-looking matron, and even the normally tough skinned reporters, who had seen everything, looked wan and reflective.

One observer, however, was unaffected. Principal Opzin had been staring penetratingly at the accused boy. In all his years as a professor, he had heard and read about such cases but had never observed one personally, and so the Arc case had interested him keenly – particularly because Opzin was a friend of the family. Like everyone else, the man had been deeply touched by the angelic appearance and manner of the little boy until, as the boy was reciting the events of the evening of October 31, his eyes had happened to lock with Ozpin's. The man felt a chilly forbodding that almost curdled his blood…

* * *

 **Vale ( In the same day )**

It takes the average human seven minutes to go to sleep, but according to Hand's Human Physiology, it takes the same average human fifteen to twenty minutes to wake up. It is as if sleep is a pool from which emerging is more difficult than entering. When the sleeper wakes, he or she comes up by degrees, from deep sleep to light sleep to what is sometimes called "waking sleep," a state in which the sleeper can hear sounds and will even respond to questions without being aware of it later...except perhaps as fragments of dreams.  
But that night, Ruby Rose couldn't dream.

She was gone to sleep very late, probably at 2:00 of the morning, given that she had spent most of the night trying to fix that box. At the end, after almost three days of uninterrupted work, she was finally able to solve it . Yet, she couldn't close her eyes.

Annoyed, she fallen into the kitchen to eat something . And then...had begun.

The song. The same song that she heard at the shop.

It seemed to have lasted a lifetime, a blood-curdling cacophony of naked terror and pain given voice. All was silent. Save for the soft notes of the music box, the ceaseless tolling of the bell and Ruby's rasping breath.

in a panic, the girl hid in the cupboard of the kitchen.

Suddenly a new sound was heard.

The creak of feet on the surface of the floor.

To his great displeasure, Ruby found her curiosity outweighed her fear. With all the skill she could muster, Ruby crept to the door of the cupboard.

Cautious, lest she be discovered, he peered through the slats that afforded him a limited view of the hallway and just a glimpse of the kitchen. She could just make out a corner of the kitchen table, but not the puzzle box resting upon it. At first this was all she could see, this and nothing more.

Then a pale, black-clad figure stepped into view.

Ruby stopped breathing.

The figure, a tall, imposing man, seemed to blend into the shadow, save for his head which seemed to float through the air as he walked slowly down the short hallway leading to the kitchen. He was nearly past the cupboard door, looking neither left, nor right, but straight ahead... when he stopped.

Ruby's heart joined his lungs in inactivity.

The regal figure tilted his head a fraction to the side, as if sensing something...

...and then he moved on, continuing into the kitchen.

Ruby's heart resumed beating and he took a shallow breath of relief.

Licking her lips nervously, the girl leaned against the cupboard wall, trying to see what was happening outside. She could see the dark man entering the kitchen and standing by the table. She saw him reach out a hand to pick up something; the puzzle box. She saw a pair of black, bottomless eyes staring back at her from less than a foot away.

In spite of herself, despite knowing that it most likely meant her death, Ruby let out a scream of unadulterated terror and lurched backwards. She fell to the cupboard floor with a loud thump, though not as loud as her cry, and scurried as far back as she could.

Following on the heels of her shout, she heard a deep voice comment, "Almost over..."

She heard the latch click and watched in dreadful anticipation as the cupboard door swung open. A dark figure stood in the doorway, imposing and terrifying despite its slight frame. It was, Ruby realized with horror, a woman. Slowly, gracefully, she crouched down and leaned into the cupboard.

"We hear everything, we see everything," she said in a brittle voice.

Ruby barely registered her words, her eyes locked at the base of her throat. It had been peeled open and he knew that if she looked closely enough, she would be able to see her spine. Filled with more terror than she thought possible, and unable to move anything else, Ruby flicked her eyes upward, meeting her cool gaze.

"Hiding in the cupboard will not save you, child" she said with a shake of her head, somehow speaking even though Ruby could see that her voice box had been removed. Her throat was just an empty cavity. She began to reach in, intending to grab hold of Ruby and pull her out, when a slender but strong arm intervened.

"No."

The woman looked up. It was the man that Ruby had seen enter the kitchen. The girl still did not have a clear view of him, as he was standing just outside the cupboard door , his head and shoulders out of sight.

"No?" asked the woman, clearly confused by the man's actions.

"No," repeated the man, giving a slight shake of his head.

"Why?" asked another voice, from a large figure that Ruby could only vaguely discern on the woman's other side.

"You know what happens to those who stand in Hell's way," intoned the man, his voice deep and regal. "The same can be said of those who stand in the way of Fate and Destiny."

Placing a hand on her shoulder, the man urged the woman back to her feet and out of the cupboard entrance. He moved to kneel down, just as the woman had done. Ruby stared at him, even more terrified than she had been when faced with the woman's mutilated visage.

The man's face was, like the woman's, ghostly pale - almost blue-white. Deep, bloodless cuts slashed up, down and across his head, spaced about an inch apart. Driven into his skull, where the lines intersected, were long, thick needles that protruded outward about an inch or so. He looked rather like a living pincushion. A pinhead. His eyes, however, were even darker than the woman's, seemingly endless in their depth, their promise of pain unimaginable.

Regarding Ruby for a moment, the pinheaded man reached out a hand. Ruby could not stop a flinch of fear, but gathered what courage she had left to hold his ground and not retreat into the darkest corners of the cupboard. She had a feeling it would not help, but rather serve only to anger this... demon.

With surprising gentleness, Pinhead brushed his fingers over Ruby's eyes.

" Silver?" asked the woman, a hint of incredulity in her echoing voice.

"A sign," elaborated Pinhead, "that this girl is marked by Fate."

Dropping his hand from where it rested, so cold that it burned like ice against Ruby's skin, Pinhead reached behind her. With the same delicate care he had used to reveal Ruby's eyes, he brought out the puzzle box, which had continued to play its simple tune the entire while.

"This, child," said Pinhead, holding the box up for Ruby to clearly see, "is the Lament Configuration." He held it in place for a second or two before lowering it to his lap and explaining. "It is a means to summon us."

He glanced up from the box, which he had been examining, and levelled a menacing stare at the girl, who remained frozen in place, scarcely daring to breathe.

"Remember it," he commanded.

Ruby barely managed a weak nod as Pinhead returned his attention to the puzzle box, the Lament Configuration. She watched with morbid fascination as the leader of the creatures began to return the box to its closed state.

His fingers worked delicately over the intricate faces, sliding various parts back into place. With each manoeuvre, as each section closed off, the soft chimes of the tune grew simpler and less intricate.

"One day you will help us , Ruby Rose," predicted Pinhead, not bothering to look up as he continued to reset the puzzle box to its unopened condition.

The last sounds of the musical tune, which had been the only constant throughout this ordeal, began to fade away as the box grew closer and closer to being fully closed. In the background ,Ruby was vaguely aware of the throatless female and her fat companion disappearing into the shadows, but her attention was focused almost entirely on the box in Pinhead's hands.

With grim finality, but tempered by inhuman patience, Pinhead slid the final panel into place. The bell gave one final, echoing toll as the demon set the puzzle box down on the floor, directly in front of Ruby.

"It is your destiny," Pinhead whispered as he too vanished into the darkness that filled number four.

There was a click from the box as the panel settled firmly into place.

The tune finally stopped.

The last echoes of the bell died away.

There was a brief flickering of lights and the buzz of electricity surging through circuits once more. The lights came on with startling abruptness .

Ruby remained perfectly still for a brief moment, staring at the box laid before her. Finally, with trembling fingers, she picked it up from its place on the floor and stuffed it the pocket of her oversized shirt. With trepidation as to what her might find, Ruby stepped out of the cupboard and began to search the house for any sign of her these strange monsters.

It was as if everything that happened were no more than a dream.

Or a nightmare.

* * *

 **Tuesday, November 6**

 **3:00 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Dr. Samuel Loomis, 45, entered the waiting room, a small area with chairs and tables covered in severely out-of-date magazines. He crossed to the service desk and looked down at the secretary, Sybil, a woman in her late 50's with a miserable look in her eyes. She lowered her newspaper with an expression that indicated that she'd done this many a time before.

"Welcome to Smith's Grove. What brings you to this glorious establishment?"

Loomis smiled grimly. "I'm here to see Dr. Wynn about the Arc case."

The nurse stood up wearily. "Follow me, sir."

She led him through the security gates to a pair of double doors, opening into a labyrinth of hallways. She turned to Loomis as she walked.

"So, are you a doctor?" she asked curiously.

Loomis smiled. "A child psychologist. I specialize in severe cases of childhood aggression."

The receptionist snorted. "I can see why you were assigned to this one, then."

They walked through more halls, passing doors leading to a cafeteria, a rec room, a padded cell, and rooms that had blank, staring faces pressed against the windows. The nurse turned to him again. "You get used to it all after a while."

Sam smiled. "How long have you worked here?"

She smirked. "Too long, honey."

Finally, they arrived at a door marked DR. TERENCE WYNN. The nurse knocked on the door. "Come in," a voice called. Loomis opened the door and stepped into the office. It was a room surprisingly cozy, what with all the misery surrounding the place. It had brown wood paneling, complete with a fireplace and lounge chairs. Dr. Wynn looked up as Loomis entered. He was a man in his early 40's, with wavy brown hair and a matching mustache.

"Sam, I'm so glad you're here."

He crossed from behind his desk and shook hands with Loomis.

"This case has been so stressful. Did you get all the details?"

Loomis shook his head. "No, I haven't been able to get all the finer points from the news. What happened, exactly?"

Wynn's face became grim at that. "Well, 6 days ago, on Halloween night, this boy was left at home with his sister. He got bored and decided to carve up some fun. His older sister was killed. He's here now, and he rarely speaks. When he does, though, it's clear he doesn't feel any remorse. We had to call you. Your work on the Bates case was incredible."

"May I meet him?"

Wynn became serious. "Please do. Follow me."

They left the comfort of the office and turned the corner, arriving at an elevator. They entered it and pressed the up arrow. As the lift clanked upwards through the shaft, Loomis stood, thinking. Wynn turned to him.

"Sam, I know that you've been out of the field for a while, but you'll be fine. This'll seem easy compared to some of the other cases you've handled."

They stepped out into a hall that was more pleasant than the rest, lit up by windows showing the grounds outside. They walked down it, shoes squeaking loudly. Finally, a door at the end of the hall came into turned to Wynn.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't accompany me in to see him, Terence. I work better alone."

Wynn smiled. "That is a fact I know all too well. I'll leave you to it."

The man unlocked the door and gave the keys to Sam.

"Just make sure you lock the door when you're done. I'll see you back in my office. And by the way, Sam, Happy Belated Birthday."

As Wynn strode back down the hall, Dr. Loomis pushed the key into the lock and turned it. The door opened into a room with a bed, a chair in front of the window, and a small table. Seated before the window, staring out was a small, blonde haired boy. Loomis approached the boy slowly.

"Hello, Michael. My name is Sam, and I'm here to help you get better."

The boy turned around slowly.

"What if I don't want any help?"he asked with his little voice.

Dr. Loomis chuckled.

"Of course you want help! Everybody needs help at some point or another. Don't you want out of here? Don't you miss your family?"

Michael smiled. "Yes. When are they coming to see me?"

Loomis smiled sadly at the boy. "I don't know. But I imagine they'll come soon."

Michael turned back to the window.

"Are you going to see me a lot?" he asked after some minutes.

Loomis got up to leave.

"Yes, I am. But not today. We start tomorrow. I'll see you then."

Michael didn't answer, just kept staring blankly out the window. Loomis left the room and locked the door behind him. He looked through the glass window in the door one last time. Michael was just sitting there patiently. He seemed to be waiting for something.

* * *

 **Wednesday, November 7**

 **3:00 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Dr. Loomis sat in Michael's cell while the boy was coloring at the table. Michael suddenly looked up as though he had just noticed the doctor's presence, even though he had been there for nearly an hour. Loomis opened his mouth to speak when Michael beat him to it.

"Are you always going to be this quiet?"

Sam smiled. "No, but I'm glad that you noticed it. Let's talk now."

Michael kept coloring.

"What do you wanna talk about?" he asked curiously.

The doctor's face suddenly became serious. "Well, I thought we'd talk about this last Halloween."

The boy still kept coloring. "What's there to talk about?"

Sam frowned slightly. "You don't remember any of it, do you?"

Michael nodded his head and suddenly held up his drawing for Loomis to see.

"It's my family. This is my Dad, my Mom and my sisters. This one is Boo. She's my favourite"

Loomis took the drawing and held it to his eyes.

"Is your sister named Boo?"he asked skeptically.

Michael smiled. "No, her name's Amber."

Loomis became curious at that.

"Then why do you call her Boo?"

Michael laughed.

"Her first word was 'boo'."

Loomis smiled. "I see. Do you miss her?"

Michael's eyes grew suddenly moist.

"Yes. I miss her most of all, even more than I miss Mommy. Boo and I were best friends, and now I can't see her anymore! When will I be able to see her?"

Loomis put an arm around Michael to comfort the boy. "Soon, I imagine."

The boy pulled another piece from the stack of paper and handed it to Loomis. Loomis looked down at the sheet and found it blank. Michael looked at him.

"It's for you. So you can draw your family."

Loomis's brain was set awhirl. Memories filled his mind. Elizabeth, watching as his taxi drives away. Coming home to find a letter in the mail saying that Jennifer has been found dead in Atlas during after an attack of the White Fang.

He looked at Michael and shook his head.

"I haven't any family left, Michael."

Michael's face grew sad. "That's not good."

He handed Sam another picture he'd drawn.

"This could cheer you up."

Loomis took the drawing from Michael without looking at it and pulled his coat on.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Michael." he whispered.

The doctor left the boy coloring away, oblivious to the world . The doctor moved blankly through the halls, stopping to say good-bye to Wynn. Heading out through the main doors, he noticed that the news was switched on to a broadcast of the murders of Halloween. Heading into the parking lot, he drew his coat tighter around him even though there was no wind. As Loomis got into his car, a wave of emotions overtook him and he let loose the tears. Crying hysterically, he rested his head against the wheel and sighed heavily.

When he finally stopped, he remembered the drawing Michael had given him. He pulled it out of his pocket and unfolded it. His eyes widened as he took in what he was seeing. A crudely drawn girl was being lowered into the ground in front of a tombstone labeled "Joan", blood pouring from stab wounds.

Loomis smiled a grim smile.

"That's just what I've been looking for, Michael."

* * *

 **Sunday, November 11**

 **2:00 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Damien and Jupiter pulled into the parking lot of Smith's Grove Sanitarium. They were dressed in black mourning clothes. After five minutes, the man took the wife's hand and led her into the building.

They went up to the receptionist's desk. She was reading a paper. Damien cleared his throat and the secretary looked around, noticing them.

"Are you here for a visit?"

She lowered the paper and they caught sight of the headline, "MURDER OF LOCAL TEENS SHOCKS COMMUNITY!"

She gave them a sad smile.

"That's so tragic. Such a small child, so innocent."

Jupiter stepped forward, tears breaking out from her eyes.

"Could you just take us to see Dr. Loomis, please."

Sam smiled.

"How long have you worked here?"

She smirked.

Sybil led them through a pair of metal gates into a hallway that had doors everywhere. She turned to them as she led them down the hallway.

"So, who's of yours do they have in here?"

Jupiter shook her head. "Michael Arc."

Sybil smirked slightly. "So, you must be the parents. I'm sorry about your loss. At least you've still got your other daughters"

Jupiter tensed.

"And what's that supposed to mean? We have our son, too."

Sybil shrugged.

"Do you?"she asked skeptically.

The huntress was spared a retort as they reached their destination. They arrived at a door marked DR. TERENCE WYNN.

Jupiter turned to the nurse. "Next time, maybe you should keep your mouth shut about matters that don't concern you."

The nurse nodded. "I'll keep that in mind for all the times I see you. And believe me, I'll be seeing you a lot. If your son's in here, he won't be leaving anytime soon."

The nurse looked taken aback as the woman ran at her, tears streaming down her face. Damien grabbed Jupiter's arm, holding her back.

"Let me at her, Damien! Let me go!"

The nurse backed away slowly with a smirk on her face. "I can definitely tell that you're related to him."

She turned back down the hall and walked away.

The huntress turned to her husband .

"Just knock on the door before I run after that wrinkly old hag."

He knocked and a man who was going bald, but still looked respectable, promptly opened the door.

"Mr. and Mrs. Arc? I'm Dr. Sam Loomis."

He shook both of their hands.

"Michael is very excited to see you."

He led them down the hall to the elevator and they stepped in. Jupiter wiped the tears from her eyes and turned to him.

"How is he, Doctor?"

Loomis looked at them.

"He has his good days and his bad ones. He misses you deeply, especially his sisters. At times, he doesn't seem to remember the incident, and at times he does. He likes to draw pictures, though."

The woman smiled weakly.

"He always has."

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. Loomis led the way down the hall towards a door. He unlocked it and they went in. When Jupiter saw Michael, she started to cry again and hugged him to her. Michael smiled.

"I missed you, mommy!"

The huntress smiled sadly. "We've missed you too, sweetie."

Michael ran to his father.

"Daddy!"

Damien picked him up gently and held him.

Loomis stood surveying this happy reunion until he beckoned the two hunters out into the hall.

"Mr. and Mrs. Arc, I'm so sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do... "

Damien turned to him.

"You can cure our son. That's what you can do."

Jupiter nodded in agreement

"I just want our son back. That's all I want now. Give us back one of our lost children."

* * *

 **Tuesday, December 25**

 **6:30 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Jupiter and Damien sat on Michael's coat. After some minutes, the man turned to him.

"What did Santa Claus bring you?"

Michael stood up and went to his table. He picked up a toy truck that made sounds and had tiny lights on it.

"He got me this cool truck!"

Jupiter smiled. "That Santa; he's one generous guy."

Michael nodded fervently. The woman turned and pulled a wrapped package from her purse and handed it to Michael.

"This is from your father and I. We know you'll like it."

The child ripped open the present eagerly, pulling out a box of 200 assorted crayons. He turned to his parents, a huge smile on his face.

"Thanks! It's perfect! I was running out of these!"

Danmien smiled. "Dr. Loomis told us. We had to help out the cause."

The man dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a picture of Michael and his sisters.

"We thought you'd like this."

Michael smiled even bigger. He grabbed it and put it on the table so that everyone could see it.

"THANK-YOU!" he exclaimed.

He ran to his parents and hugged them both. He sat back down next to them. Damien and Jupiter both smiled. A half-hour later, they were departing.

* * *

 **Friday, February 8**

 **1:30 PM**

Michael and Sam were seated in the cafeteria. Michael was eating a ham sandwich .along with an apple and a carton of milk ,while he colored a picture. Loomis regarded Michael with an air of seriousness.

"Michael, do you remember anything about Halloween?"

Michael looked up. "Well, I went trick-or-treating by myself."

Loomis's eyes lit up. Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

"Why did you go by yourself, Michael?"

The child got a face like he was trying to remember very hard. "Because my mommy and daddy were at work."

Sam pressed on.

"Couldn't your sister Joan have taken you?"

Michael shook his head.

"She was with her boyfriend." "What was this boyfriend's name?"

Michael smiled. " Danny. I like him. He's always nice to me."

Loomis frowned.

"Come on, Michael. Remember. I know you can do it. What happened when you came home from trick-or-treating?"

Michael smiled. "I ate all my candy. It was really good!"

Loomis got up and paced the empty room.

"What happened between you and your sister?"

Michael got a glum face. "We fought. We always fight, but I still love her. I don't think she loves me."

Loomis came down and got in Michael's face.

"THINK MICHAEL! THINK! WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR SISTER?!"

Michael looked scared, but then his face got a hint of malice. He looked Dr. Loomis straight in the eye.

"I hurt her."

He suddenly dove across the table at Loomis. He slammed into Loomis with an almost primal yell, knocking the old man to the ground and stabbing him in the arm with a colored pencil. Loomis managed to push Michael off of him and pulled the pencil out. He got a tight grip on Michael's hands. Michael kicked and bit him in the hand, but Sam didn't release his hold on him.

Two security guards ran into the room, one of them pulling Michael off Loomis, the other one helping Sam up from the ground. Michael continued fighting against the hold of the guard. He was carted off to his room, Loomis following. Michael was held down on his cot while the nurse hurried in.

As she injected the needle into his arm, he let loose with a howl. The nurse jumped backwards in fright at his screams. She went to Loomis, and led him out of the room to treat his wound.

As Sam looked back, Michael was watching him, hatred in his eyes.

* * *

 **Saturday, February 9**

 **12:00 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Damien and Jupiter strode into Smith's Grove. The receptionist sat up with a smirk on her face. She opened her mouth to make a snide comment when Jupiter cut her off.

"Save it."

The secretary led them to Michael's room where Dr. Loomis was waiting for them ,outside the door. The secretary turned to Loomis.

"Have fun with the basket case in there."

Jupiter's face grew red and she started to shake in anger. She turned to the nurse as she went back down the hall.

"Listen, you stupid bitch, why don't you just reach up your ass and pull that stick out!"

The nurse smirked.

"I like your dress. It really hides those implants."

The huntress ran at the nurse and CRACK! She gave her a mean uppercut that knocked her to the floor. The secretary got up, her mouth bleeding. Loomis looked appalled at both of them. The woman got up.

"My lawyer liked that."

Jupiter glared at her. "Not as much as I did."

As the nurse left, Jupiter turned to Loomis.

"Sorry you had to see that. She just really got under my skin. Please tell me that you have good news."

Sam still looked shaken, but his face suddenly darkened.

"I'm afraid not. It's my regret to inform you that Michael seems to have regressed. He seemed to be making progress yesterday. We were discussing the incident when he dove at me and stabbed me in the arm with a colored pencil. As such, he has been in lockdown. He has so far attempted to strangle 3 of the nurses."

The couple turned to each other, fear in their eyes. Damien angrily swore.

"We're paying you almost everything we have to cure our son. Are you saying that this whole thing has been a waste?!"

Loomis patted him consolingly on the arm. "No, it hasn't been a waste. He's under observation while we speak."

Jupiter turned to the man.

"Can we see him?"

Loomis led them to the elevator. When they arrived at the first floor, they made a right through a metal door into the maximum-security ward. They went to the first door on their right, looking into a padded cell through the one-way mirror next to the door. Michael was in a straightjacket, leaning against the padded walls, his eyes staring blankly at the wall. The woman opened the door and stepped inside the cell.

"Michael? Can you hear me?"

She approached him but received no answer.

It's probably wrong to believe there can be any limit to the horror which the human mind can experience. On the contrary, it seems that some exponential effect begins to obtain as deeper and deeper darkness falls - as little as one may like to support the idea that when the nightmare grows black enough, horror spawns horror, one coincidental evil begets other, often more deliberate evils, until finally blackness seems to cover everything. And the most terrifying question of all may be just how much horror the human mind can stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity. At some point, it all starts to become rather funny. That may be the point at which sanity begins either to save itself or to buckle and break down; that point at which one's sense of humor begins to reassert itself. But that day,when Jupiter looked into the eyes of her son...she saw only pure horror.

She quickly exited the cell, rushing past her husband in tears. Damien hurried after her.

Loomis closed the door and looked back through the window. Even though Michael couldn't see Sam through the one-way glass, he seemed to be watching the man, evil in his eyes.

* * *

 **Thursday, March 1**

 **1:00 PM**

 **Smith's Grove Sanitarium**

Jupiter and Damien sat in Dr. Loomis's office in stony-faced silence. Sam smiled sadly.

"Mrs. Arc, I will keep trying to get through to Michael. We must keep hoping for the best. That's all we can do."

Damien rose from his chair. His face was slowly turning red.

"You listen to me, you old coot. We're paying you out the ass to help our son and now you suddenly say that he's hopeless! Well, I can tell you something right now. We're through here. You can take all your fancy talk about healing and breakthroughs and throw it away because I'm not going to keep paying for nothing!"

The wife laid a hand on her husband, causing him to turn.

"Damien, think about what you're saying here. We can't just throw all of this away! Think what would happen to Michael then! At least he still has a chance! Or do you want to bury another of our children?!"

Her voice broke on this sentence and tears started rolling down her face.

"Please ,Damien; please, just stay with it for a little while longer. Don't you love your son?"

The hunter walked to the door and opened it. "I'm not sure anymore."

With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Jupiter turned to Sam.

"Just give us some time." she whispered .

But they never returned...

* * *

 **Two months later**

Six months had passed since the hearing, and, as required by law, Loomis now appeared before General Ironwood in the magistrate's chambers. As they sipped glasses of port, Loomis noted how much the man seemed to have aged. Loomis tactfully said something to this effect.

"It disturbed me deeply then, and it disturbs me no less deeply now. It haunts my waking hours and my sleep. I don' think I've ever done anything so difficult in my life. But what could I have done? What would you have done? How is he?"

"He is... fine. Of course, in my professional capacity, 'fine' must be defined..."

"Please, no psychiatric rubbish, Loomis. Just tell me about his behavior in plain terms." "In plain terms? After that event with the pencil, He has done nothing, to our direct knowledge, that would indicate anything else but normality."

"Direct knowledge?"

"General Ironwood," Loomis said, rising to his feet and distractedly running his fingers over the red and beige bound legal volumes on the general's shelves, "there have been some peculiar and unpleasant occurrences at Smith's Grove in the last six months. Particularly in the juvenile ward."

The general leaned forward.

"Like what!"

"Well, first of all, you have to understand that as Michael is by far the youngest patient in the ward, he would ordinarily be the subject of a great deal of bullying yes?"

"I should imagine so."

"Well, there hasn't been any attempt whatsoever. Not so much as a pinch." The military man stroked his cheek. "And what do you make of that?"

"The same thing you do, I'm sure. They're afraid of him. I have seen him turn the hardest delinquent in the ward to stone with a stare."

The man digested it.

"And this is all you have to say? You feel this is sufficient reason for me to extend his incarceration..."

"Then there was the matter of Gilden, the trustee. Gilden is known around the ward for his pranks. The children love him; he's the only breath of fresh air in the place. One day, about a month after Michael's arrival, old Gilden played one of his harmless practical jokes on the boy – one I've seen countless times."

"What was that?"

"Oh, he loosened the cap on the salt shaker, so that Michael salted his dinner, the contents of the shaker fell into his food. As usual, it got a big laugh. It has become practically an initiation ceremony for the youngsters at the hospital."

"And...?"

"Michael didn't think it was funny."

"What did he do?"

"Nothing, at the time. But that night, Gilden came down with a case of cramps so severe he had to have his stomach pumped. It was analyzed as food poisoning."

"But you think...?"

"Yes, though I don't know how the boy might have gotten to the kitchen or what he could have used. The juvenile ward is separated from the kitchen by a series of guarded or locked passages."

"I see. Anything else?"

"Nothing quite as tangible. But the other boys in my charge have become... well, rather restless since Michael's arrival. Like a herd of cattle that instinctively feels the presence of wolves out there in the darkness. They always seem to be on the verge of bolting. Stampeding."

Ironwood looked at him.

"Dr. Loomis, I think you know how profoundly unnerved this matter has made me, and how desperately interested I am in seeing Michael treated and released. I'm not overly impressed by the observations you've made this morning, and it's only your reputation that keeps me from making some rather critical remarks. Now, I want to know if the boy sticks to his story, understands what he did, feels remorseful, feels purged of the murderous hatred he described to us at the hearing, that sort of thing."

"General," said Loomis, collapsing into a leather chair, "the boy's story and attitude haven't changed a whit since the hearing, though I have spent nearly two hours a day with him every day for six months. I have nothing to go on but my experience and my hunches, and I tell you out of the depths of all I have learned and observed in fifteen of exploration of the human mind, Michael Arc may be the most dangerous person I have ever handled."

Loomis's crystal blue eyes locked with general's and held them for a long moment.

Then the man pulled his gaze away and quaffed down the rest of his port with anger.

"Damn it, Loomis, I cannot run my court on hunches, hearsay, coincidences, or anything but hard evidence. So unless you can come up with something, something he says, something he doe, I am going to seriously entertain the boy's release the next time you appear before me. Is that understood?"

"Yes, general," Loomis breathed, taking his leave with no ceremony whatever.

In the following months there were more "occurrences," and in Loomis's mind there was no doubt whom to ascribe them to. Every time Michael was slighted, or fancied he was, by a staff member or another inmate, some awful vengeance was visited upon the offending person. It might be a day, a week, a month later, but Michael got even. The problem for Loomis was that no one ever observed the boy doing it directly.

One day, as the boys were watching television in the lounge, a fifteen-year-old got up and turned the sound lower. Michael rose and turned it up again. The other boy turned it lower again. Michael accepted the situation with a resigned shrug. That evening, as the older boy showered, the water turned scalding. The lad was harmed only enough to discomfort him for a week, but it could have been serious, and everyone knew who was behind it. Yet apparently Michael had not left his room.

There were other incidents.

A nurse who quarreled with Michael fell down the stairs two days later, fracturing her pelvis. A boy who borrowed a game from Michael and forgot to return it suffered a vicious rash that hospitalized him for a month. What doubly disturbed Loomis was that subtly but definitely, the boy was capturing the leadership of the juvenile ward, because no one dared to challenge him. Everyone, staff and inmates alike, indulged him, and so he pretty much got his way.

Loomis wondered when his own turn would come, but it never did, and he believed it was because no matter how much Loomis challenged the boy, no matter how much he thwarted him, Michael knew that Loomis was trying to help him. The boy grudgingly acknowledged Loomis's authority, and that, Loomis concluded, was probably, the only thing that prevented Michael from walking scot-free out of the institution.

"You could, you know," Loomis aid to him one afternoon during their regular therapy session. "That's how much they fear you. If you were to ask an orderly for keys, ask a guard or trustee to turn his back at the appropriate moment, you could stroll out of here, such is the power you exert over them. Isn't that true Michael!"

The boy's eyes clouded and he shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Ah, but you won't do it," Loomis said, almost smugly.

"You won't do it because you have it made here. Here you have your own little world. If you were to escape, why, what would await you out there but strife and hassle? So you stay here, snug and secure, isn't that true, you little dev...?"

Loomis caught himself. No matter what he believed, it was unprofessional to express it that way, and besides, when you got right down to it, no one had ever seen the kid do anything to anybody.

Which is why, at this outburst of Loomis's frustration, Michael simply fluttered his long eyelashes, smiled, and said, "I don't understand, Dr. Loomis."

Loomis dreaded his next six-month review of Michael's case with Ironwood, because if Loomis couldn't produce any hard evidence of wrongdoing on Michael's part, the General might very well order his release. So it went, through the summer and early fall. Then, one day in mid-October, at the end of another fruitless therapy session, Michael dropped a bomb.

"Can we have a Halloween party, Dr. Loomis?"

Loomis's eyes all but bulged out of their sockets.

"A Halloween party! You of all people..."

"All the other kids think it would be a wonderful idea. So does Nurse Kramer, and Dr. Martin said he'd have no objection."

"Nurse Kramer and Dr. Martin are my subordinates, and they..."

"Are you sure you don't want us to have one?" Michael asked.

His feelings were clearly very strong.

"Of course I'm..."

He caught himself in mid-sentence, and suddenly he realized a Halloween party might be just the thing.

A plan formed in his mind, and after a moment's reflection he said, "Well, actually, I see no harm."

The mere announcement of the party proved therapeutic for most of the boys in the ward as they set to work industriously to create costumes and decorations. The costumes they chose were revealing their deepest fantasies, and this was an unexpected bonus for the psychiatric staff who might otherwise have had to probe for months into their minds for the same material.

In the last week before Halloween, Michael began to get restless and excited, edgy and irascible. Loomis was well aware of the psychiatric phenomenon known as the "anniversary syndrome," wherein mentally disturbed persons relive the events of the previous year's trauma. Michael seemed to be following this classic pattern, and on the evening of October 31, Loomis placed the staff on what he only half-jokingly called red alert. The children (the girl's ward had been allowed to join the boys for the occasion) were to be carefully observed, and Loomis wanted two staff members besides himself to do nothing else but watch Michael.

Loomis needed not only an incident, but witnesses. The children were led into a little gymnasium, where black and orange streamers had been festooned, and cutouts of witches and goblins, black cats and pumpkins made by the children had been taped to the walls.

The children wore their costumes, and even the nurses and orderlies donned clever masks, hats, or costumes to join in the fun. Michael was dressed as a clown. After cake and soda, the games began. For obvious reasons, they were kept simple and nonthreatening. But after a round of musical chairs, in which a sixteen-year-old girl named Sophie had beaten Michael out for the last chair (had she known about the boy's reputation, she'd have given it to him), Loomis leaned forward alertly, scrutinizing Michael. The stage had been set for something. The next game was ducking for apples. A huge vat had been borrowed from the kitchen, filled with water, and a dozen apples floated in it. The idea was for the children to pick an apple out of the water using just your teeth.

After eight or nine children had gone, it was Sophie's turn. Michael stood third or fourth in line behind her. She leaned over the lip of the vat, struggling to keep her hands behind her back to resist the temptation to grab the apple.

The Lights went out.

It was not uncommon for the lights to fail at Smith's Grove, especially on windy nights, when trees fell on power lines in rural areas. But it was not a windy night. Loomis had been prepared for anything but this. He leapt from his chair and ran in the pitch darkness for the spot where he thought the vat was. He bowled over several shrieking children and groped the last few steps until he collided with the platform on which the vat stood. At that moment the hospital's own emergency generators, which tripped on automatically when the main utility system failed, brought light back into the auditorium.

Sophie lay face down beside the vat, drenched from the waist up. Loomis searched the room for Michael. He stood under a basketball backboard, at least ten steps away, smiling. Loomis looked at the boy's costume and hands: they were completely dry. With a nurse Loomis applied artificial respiration, and after a moment the girl brought up a large quantity of water, sputtering and gasping.

The party was over. Loomis's trap had failed. But ultimately, Loomis won.

For, on the day he was scheduled to drive up to the county seat to plead his case with Ironwood , he received a phone call from the bailiff of the juvenile court. .

Loomis presented the man with a forty-five page paper describing Michael's personality and the incidents of the last year, and though there was still not a shred of evidence to support Loomis's contention that Michael was a homicidal psychopath, the general accepted Loomis's opinion that it was best to keep the boy behind institutional walls.

And so it was that 10 years passed...

* * *

 **Please, reviewed !**

 **In the next chappy, Freddy and Blake will make their first appearance.**


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